


My Pain Fits in the Palm of Your Freezing Hand

by farfarawaygirl



Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: Am I too late?, F/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, She’s his whole damn heart, Talking about Otis, just thinking about these fools is painful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:21:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29692182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farfarawaygirl/pseuds/farfarawaygirl
Summary: Ever since he traded his grey Lieutenant’s shit for a white Captain’s shirt there has been a little more weight on him. A heaviness in his features that never really goes away. Sylvie thinks back to when he got the promotion, the tension of his personal life, the losses he had suffered, and she has the weirdest feeling that she should have done more to protect him then. She’s not sure how she could have, but it’s a little ache in her heart that she didn’t.He has to be so many things to so many people, of course he can’t be more than a friend to her, he’s already used up. Sylvie feels an immense tenderness towards Matt in her heart, a sudden deeper understanding for everything that transpired between them. Reaching up she rubs her temples, the urge to cry, the gamut of emotions have all built behind her eyes to give Sylvie a pounding headache.
Relationships: Sylvie Brett/Matthew Casey
Comments: 15
Kudos: 104





	My Pain Fits in the Palm of Your Freezing Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Hey babes, I set out to write a very different little story, but ended up here. 
> 
> Title from Ivy by Taylor Swift
> 
> Inspiration came from the GORGEOUS painting, Meeting on the Turret Stairs by Frederic William Burton, so, look that up! 
> 
> I’m a disaster at editing.

Here’s the thing about first responders; it’s always life or death. That is the job. They signed up for it, and they chose to run towards the danger when the bells go off. It’s part of the deal. 

You have to be able to laugh a little to make it through a shift. That’s why whenever the danger ends, no matter how miraculous the save, or insane the adrenaline rush really was, they cope by laughing. It’s a pat on the back and a shake of the head. They weave stories about the aftermath, swapping them with others, sharing the daring deed. 

It’s part of the deal. 

Sylvie knows that. 

She, herself, has laughed about incidents moments after they have concluded. Joking with Squad right after she clung to Capp and Cruz on the roof of some industrial building, mere inches from disaster. Narrowly avoiding out of control cars and rolling her eyes. Exchanging smiles with Severide and Foster as she blocked a rushing car in her Ambo. Sharing a drink with Peter Mills after anyone of their daring escapades. 

51 and it’s inhabitants keep going because they know the heavy cost of it all. And they ever forgot, there’s a wall of pictures, a name on the Ambo door, and a memorial right on the edge of the property. Severide had mentioned walking in shadows a while back, and it’s true; they walk in them. They live in them. They live with the ghost, because memory cuts both ways. Good and bad. It’s as much a gift as it is a heavy burden. 

Some calls you can’t laugh off. The calls that take someone. Arnow will never be a joke, it cost them all too much. Sylvie hates that intersection where Jimmy got himself blown up. She knows that Matt avoids driving down the street where Darden died. The streets of Chicago are like a twisted little map, places they evaded death, places they saved others, places they were too late to make a difference. A personal Haunted House tour that they all live with. 

This last call falls into the first category. Places they evaded death. It had been by a narrow window, but somehow they had all made it out. Sylvie knows this. She checked them all over for smoke inhalation herself, pressed her stethoscope to the chests of people she loves and measured their breathing. 

Sylvie had patched a burn on Severide’s neck, checked Mouch’s knee, and had examined Casey for a concussion. Sweat had matted his hair, mingling with the soot and water he had poured over his head. It had been a panicked examination, her fingers pressing into his skull, moulding to the shape of his skin. Pen light flashes in his eyes, the burden of decision heavy on her shoulders. It hadn’t helped that Matt had been inches from her, Sylvie had felt the intense pressure of his gaze on her, hadn’t been able but to remember the last time they had been this close. 

After her run to Med, which had been extended by Covid screening and waits, she had returned to 51 with Mackey, both of them exhausted. It had almost slipped her mind that Greg was there, covering for Herrmann. She’d never felt more on edge in the house. This was a special brand of torture, at the very least on par with her running into Sydney. There are just so many emotions building up behind her ribs. 

Greg stands up when Sylvie and Mackey enter the common room, actually stands up from his spot eating dinner with Cruz and Ritter. “Saved you guys some dinner.” His smile is so guileless, open in a way that is as endearing as it is frightening. Everything about Greg Grainger is full of potential. But, all that really means is that Sylvie has to examine her own heart, so it doesn’t really feel like a win. 

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Mackey heads over to the counter, “what do we have?”

“Captain cooked up carbonara.” Mouch gave her a look over his glasses, feet on the coffee table, from his usual spot on the couch. 

Sylvie looked around the room, “Casey cooked?”

Severide was watching her, leaning back in his chair, “it was a needed distraction, that was an intense last call.”

Unbidden, her eyes fill a little with tears. “Yeah. Haven’t had to pull out my turnout gear in a hot minute.”

“Shit,” Severide stands up, “I wasn’t thinking.”

There’s an intense pressure building in her chest, everything coming at her all at once. Of course Otis had been in her mind today, the floor on that call had collapsed when the fire had flashed over. Of course pulling on her turn out gear had been like some sort of psychological torture flashback to the Arnow fire. 

It’s just that these last few months have been a total heartbreaking mess, and she can’t stop thinking about Otis. Or Julie. Or Foster leaving. Or the way that she still just wants Matt so bad her heart feels like it’s been pulverized. Sometimes Sylvie feels like she hasn’t been able to get a full breath of air since she agreed to marry Kyle. 

“Sylvie!” Her name is repeated across the room. Grainger. Stella. Joe. Mouch. 

Sidestepping Grainger’s outstretched hand, Sylvie holds her own out in front of her, “I’m good. I’m good. I just need...” what does she need? A hug? A trip to Mexico? A full night of sleep? Severide is right in front of her, Stella over his shoulder, both giving her similar concerned expressions. “I just need some air.”

Pushing past them she cuts across the kitchen and out the back door, leaning against the wall, Sylvie drops her head down. It’s bracingly cold. Gulping in air Sylvie winces when she thinks of the last five minutes. Not that she needs to give anyone an explanation, but who could possible understand? 

A traitorous voice at the back of her brain just says, ‘Matt’. That’s true, he would understand. 

Ever since he traded his grey Lieutenant’s shit for a white Captain’s shirt there has been a little more weight on him. A heaviness in his features that never really goes away. Sylvie thinks back to when he got the promotion, the tension of his personal life, the losses he had suffered, and she has the weirdest feeling that she should have done more to protect him then. She’s not sure how she could have, but it’s a little ache in her heart that she didn’t. 

He has to be so many things to so many people, of course he can’t be more than a friend to her, he’s already used up. Sylvie feels an immense tenderness towards Matt in her heart, a sudden deeper understanding for everything that transpired between them. Reaching up she rubs her temples, the urge to cry, the gamut of emotions have all built behind her eyes to give Sylvie a pounding headache. 

It doesn’t take long for Matt to find her. She expected him to come out, of course he would, he’s Matt Casey, so he’s going to come looking for anyone he’s in charge of who is in distress. That’s just how he is wired. 

“Hey.” Matt’s arm brushes against her as he settles against the wall beside her, it’s a moment of comfort that she has been craving for weeks. “What a call.”

Her reply is watery. “Yeah.”

“Talk to me.”

Those words are everything she has wanted since she asked him to leave her apartment. Sylvie breathes out. “Matt.”

“Please, Sylvie.”

Because this moment exists outside of time and space, she leans her head against his shoulder and breathes in. Matt laces the fingers from his right hand with her left. It’s nice. Matt’s hand is calloused and warm against hers, Sylvie likes it so much. Too much. 

“That call was just a lot.” Sylvie closes her eyes and feels the scratch of his white shirt under her cheek. “I haven’t worn turn out gear since Arnow.”

“I think of that call every time the bells go off.” When Matt speaks Sylvie’s head rises and falls with the movement of his shoulder. It’s oddly comforting. 

“And then you got hurt today.”

Matt drops his head on hers. “I’m fine.” How can it be so comforting to just be this close to someone? 

“I hate it when anyone I work with gets hurt, but when you were the last one out of the building- Matt, that was torture.”

“Can’t be worse than when I called you into a building, and broke your arm.”

“No! Matt,” Sylvie interjects, her right hand grabbing his elbow, “that’s not at all how I see it. That’s not how it was.”

“Every choice I’ve made since then has been the wrong one. I called you in, I let Otis die, I pushed you into Sheffield’s arms.” Sylvie is shaking her head, even as Matt keeps on listing his mistakes. “I didn’t know what you were asking me, and then I messed everything up with you.”

“Matt.” She sounds tired. 

He clears his throat, “am I too late?”

That’s a loaded question. But the answer is easy. “No.”

Turning towards her, Matt presses their foreheads together, their breath mingling, hot and close between them. He rubs his nose against hers, and Sylvie feels the same electric pull she felt that night he showed up at her apartment. With her last coherent thought Sylvie gets two fingers between their lips. 

“Wait. Not yet, I have to end things with Greg before we...” Matt kisses her fingers. “We have to talk.”

Matt slowly pulls back, caressing her face. For a long moment they just stare at each other, his eyes burning into her, pinning her in place. Sylvie feels seen. It’s not uncomfortable, but it is the first time she has ever felt like this. Like the man looking at her understands her heart, understands her fears. 

“Sylvie, can I take you for breakfast after shift?”

“Yup. Yeah. Yes.” The blush spreads over her cheeks, warming her up from the cold. 

The bells sound distantly, calling for 61, and Sylvie moves past Matt to grab the door, he snags her left hand, it’s not lost on her that the wrist he’s holding belongs to the arm she broke. Bringing it to his lips, Matt kisses her wrist. “Be safe,” he says, letting her go. 

“Of course, I have waffles to look forward too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m going through withdrawal! Share a head cannon, prompt, spoiler or speculation!! 😘


End file.
